


Endure Me, Do Not Ask For Tidings

by Sanguineheroine



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Alternate Universe Hellenistic Religion & Lore, Anthea is Hungry, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Kink Meme, M/M, Slash, They're All Horses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 13:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1859421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanguineheroine/pseuds/Sanguineheroine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22393.html?thread=131636089#t131636089">this prompt</a> at the Kink Meme for Sherlock as the East Wind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endure Me, Do Not Ask For Tidings

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd and out of practise. Please let me know if you spot anything funny.

_The wild and frantic chorus of their voices echoing off their prison of iron and earth. The first sweet breath of freedom when Zeus unbarred the doors and their joyful hoof beats as they galloped away from the cliffs. Such a storm they made that night! Driving rain and warm, swirling winds and over it all Notus' savage howls of joy._

_The sea swelled ever higher and fiercer until from the darkest and deepest trench a golden point broke through the foam and a thrumming song filled the air. Rich and steady was the song, with a pulsing hum like the rhythm of a living man's heart but no living man carried such a weapon, nor sang with the rolling voice of a shimmering summer sea. Never before had the East Wind heard Poseidon's voice but as it rose all around them even the wildness of Notus was tamed and Eurus_ knew. 

Here, in the arms of the sea, was the peace he had longed for.

***

It wasn’t the shuffle of John’s limp or the thud of his cane on the linoleum that drew Sherlock’s attention. It wasn’t his eyes or his phone or his tan that told his story – those things were peripheral, prosaic, _boring_. 

What was fascinating was the smell of salt and sand and wind that followed John into the morgue and the bright chime under Sherlock’s skin when they shook hands that left his whole body humming like a struck bell.

Later that night, John drew his weapon and the glint of chrome was so gloriously bright that Sherlock had to blink away the afterimage of shining golden tines and glistening skin.

When John leaned over to drape a blanket _“it’s for your shock”_ around Sherlock’s shoulders, Sherlock seized John’s wrist and held it to his ear. John looked bemused but stayed compliantly still for a long moment until Sherlock released him. John pulled back and started to speak but the words were lost when he met Sherlock’s wild _(blue seas grey waves dark sky red dawn sunlight on waves so bright so bright)_ eyes and the pieces fell into place.

 _“Ill-fated one”_ he breathed, lapsing into Greek. The words were foreign after so long and harsh on a tongue softened by English. _“Child of the dawn. I never dreamed you would return to me.”_

 _“Father of the Sea,”_ Sherlock inclined his head respectfully but his full lips smiled around the honorific. _“Bringer of peace.”_

John chuckled and Sherlock looked back up at him, surprised. “Peace” John said thoughtfully, switching carefully back to English “It’s been a while since anyone accused me of that. And even longer since I've been to the sea.”

“I can’t imagine you there,” Sherlock said quietly “surrounded by desert and death. How did you survive?”

“The blessing and curse of immortality is that one has very little say in one’s survival.” John smiled wryly and continued “Afghanistan is quite beautiful, in its own way. Sand in the desert and water in the oases and the children of Pegasus will still come, if you know how to call them. Wild, though” he added, smiling again “cousins of yours, perhaps?”

***

Mycroft came for John, as John expected that he would. He had _not_ expected the shining black car or the Maenad tapping away on her mobile but the North Wind was nothing if not fearless and he himself had no quarrel with the daughter of Dionysus. Not in that get-up, anyway.

Mycroft was alone when John arrived and presumably unwatched. John presumed felt free to presume so at the sight of Mycroft leaning quietly against a pillar, shirtless and unglamoured. He was combing his fingers thoughtfully through golden pinion feathers, shaking loose smoking curls of warm air.

He looked up as John approached and straightened his shoulders, wings shuffling back in an unconscious military posture. 

“Still the soldier, Boreas?”

Mycroft smiled “I graduated to king some hundred-odd years ago. In rank, if not in title”.

“Sherlock seems to think that you are more like to become a queen” John moved easily around the obviously placed chair and took up parade rest at two generous paces from Mycroft’s bare chest.

“Well” drawled Mycroft thoughtfully “I suppose they do call it ‘Greek style’, don’t they? I do wish someone would enlighten that lovely creature in the car as to her cultural inheritance” he sighed wistfully, then straightened his brows and looked straight at John without a trace of levity.

“You were there when Xerxes sailed into harbour, were you not?”

“I was” John confirmed, not shifting his gaze from Mycroft’s.

“Four hundred ships I sank that day. Forty thousand men.” He paused, leaning forward to bring his face to John’s “How many days do you suppose there have been since that one, dearest Poseidon?”

“Enough, I would imagine” replied John, already turning to leave “that you would have found the time to look at a map and discover just exactly how much of this world is covered by my oceans.” He paused at the car, turning back for a moment to look at Mycroft over his shoulder.

“What exactly was the point of this little intrigue, Boreas?”

Mycroft blanched a moment at the sound of his name but recovered just as quickly. “Sherlock _is_ my brother and I-“ John cut him off, eyes blazing.

“Eurus has belonged to me since first he heard my voice!” His eyes darkened and his voice echoed eerily back from the gloom _“He is my wild rapture, my idolater and my idol. I am the calm at the heart of his storm. Ever shall he return to me and I to him until the last night falls on Earth and Cronus comes to claim us.”_

Poseidon breathed deeply and when he exhaled again he was John; flushed and panting but no less resolved. He climbed into the car and knocked firmly on the driver’s screen while pointedly ignoring the Maenad’s hungrily admiring gaze. “I'm flattered, really, but before I get off with someone I like to be fairly sure I’ll come out of it with all of my internal organs.”

She hissed out what might have been a laugh, showing a mouthful of sharp white teeth. “Do you fear me, immortal one?”

John snorted.

“I might be immortal but that does not mean I want to go digging around in your kitchen for my own pancreas. I’ve had quite enough of that for one millennia, thank you. Now” he said forcefully “back to Baker Street please.”

***

“Zeus was envious of our power” Mycroft said simply as he sipped his whisky “so he locked us away.”

Jim smirked and shrugged as well as one can when one is in full-body restraints “It’s more likely that he was just a little put out about you knocking up his priestesses. You _know_ how jealous he gets.”

“Hmm…yes” Mycroft allowed with a smile “I had almost forgotten about that. Such beauties they were too. The fillies were the most perfect shades of cream and gold, like a winter sunrise. Mummy was _so_ pleased.”

Jim’s face crumpled into a frown “I can’t hear her sing in here, big brother. Not a peep in months” he fretted, slumping back against the soft cell wall “nor a breath of wind, nor the song of the sea.”

“I am sorry, Notus” Mycroft said softly, his carefully cultured tones sharp around the old name “but the storms were…You cannot control yourself, and I cannot always be here to clean up after you. I wish-“

“ _He_ won’t come for me now, Boreas. _He_ won’t ever sing me to sleep again.” Jim was curled in on himself and the words were barely more than breath but Mycroft heard the musical cadence of their native tongue in his words.

“No” he said sadly as he rapped on the window “I don’t suppose he will.” 

***

Sherlock goes back to the roof of Bart's sometimes. When the morning air is damp and cool and the Eastern sky is ruddy he likes to tip his face to the sky and wait for the West wind. Zephyrus is lost now, but the warm breeze smells like home.

Here, just before the light touches his skin, he can remember the feel of warm wind at his wing tips, warm raindrops in his mane and the sweet sound of his mother's carolling as she summoned her brother to the sky. 

London's dawn carol is just growling engines and trains shrieking on their steel rails but he nevertheless bows politely to Helios as he ascends - twenty-five hundred odd years in between visits is no reason to disregard one's familial obligations - before walking slowly back down the stairs and back to Baker Street. 

When dawn broke on the morning after they returned from Dartmoor, John had already awakened and the steady thump of his heart was summoning Sherlock home. Perhaps, Sherlock thought, he would take John to the seaside today.


End file.
